


A Night To Spare

by crush (beekeepercain)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Christmas, M/M, Stanford Era, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 02:32:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5522186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/crush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's preparing to spend Christmas alone in his student apartment, but a surprise visit changes the plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night To Spare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [innerglow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/innerglow/gifts).



> My Wincest Secret Santa fic for **innerglow** \- I hope you like it!

* * *

 

Christmas lights lit up the walk to Sam's cramped one-room apartment. He was hauling a bag full of books with him, and it was digging painfully into his shoulders by the time he walked up the stairs towards his door. Some other students joined him and left him on the way up, each entering their own little hole in the wall before Sam reached his; many of the doors were decorated for Christmas. Sam's wasn't - Christmas had long since lost its magic in his eyes. And besides, he had no family to celebrate with, just a couple bottles of beer in the fridge, leftover from a night of studying in the company of a couple friends. For himself, he wouldn't have bothered.

The door opened without a sound, and he slipped inside like a burglar in the night. Only after he was safely on the other side did he feel comfortable again: the bag slipped off his shoulder and collided softly with the floor despite its weight. Sam kicked off his shoes and wandered inside, ready to curl up under a blanket and sleep late on the Christmas morning. He had no plans, even though he'd been invited to drink. He'd gone the year before and even though Christmas held no special meaning to him, celebrating it by watching his friends throw up in the toilet again didn't seem appealing. A day alone, just between him and the load of books he'd climbed up with... now that didn't sound so bad.

The noises from the surrounding apartments served as a soundtrack as he moved across the room to the window looking out towards the campus area. Not much was to be seen there, either, but Sam stood there for a while just listening to the banging and laughing surrounding him. There was a sense of hollowness that often accompanied him during holidays, a feeling like lacking something that was fundamental to the human experience; it wasn't new, but Stanford hadn't helped it. Every time a car sped up, its engine roaring to life with the right tone, Sam felt a sting of pain within that hollowness - a longing that nothing could take away from him. Sun had already set and the scenery ahead was dark, spare for the electric lights hanging in every window and the headlights of cars passing by. It was a cheerful scenery, one that served only to highlight the silence inside Sam's own little room. He retreated, fell to sit on his bed and then on his back over it, eyes closing and the constant, reliable beating of his heart the only sound that followed him there. The blanket was cool underneath him, and even though the mattress was firm, it offered him a welcoming sensation regardless. Yeah, he could stay there. A glance at his alarm clock told him it was barely past eight in the evening, but...

A sound alarmed him. It sounded like paper grinding against the floor, and he rose up from the bed confused. Around him, his neighbours continued chattering loudly - nothing else had changed, but the sound hadn't come from anyone else's apartment. It had clearly come from his. His first instinct was to look at the pile of letters he'd left on the table earlier, but the stack was intact, as formless as it was. Nothing had slid down and onto the floor. Instead, in front of his door, something had indeed changed. On the floor there was a card, still half-trapped underneath the door. A hint of a smile crossed Sam's lips; whoever was responsible for the card was nevertheless the first person to send Sam one, even though it was likely that he wasn't the _only_ person who'd receive one. He stood up and crossed the room again, crouched in front of the door, planted two fingers over the red card with a simplified, stylized Christmas tree printed on it, and pulled it inside. He picked it up and turned it around, expecting a generic holiday greeting from someone whose name he'd associate with a face but not much else - instead, what he saw made his heart skip a beat.

_Holiday cheers to my little brother in academia,  
_ _\- D_

Sam stared at it for a moment that seemed to prolong endlessly. At the end of it, he lowered it with trembling hands and stood up again: he stared at the door, eyes flickering towards the card as if to make sure there wasn't a stamp on it, and his breath had caught in his chest like he no longer dared to let it out. It passed out as a shivering little gasp as he reached for the door's handle, heart beating loudly in his ears, and opened it up.

The only thing he saw at first was the sleeve of a large leather jacket. It rested against his doorway, the rest of its owner hidden past the frame, but then Dean peeked at the opening door with a grin on his face. Sam read him like an open book: there was bravado in his expression, but it wasn't a genuine one. His brother was just as breathless and insecure as Sam felt. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Dean leaned to the door's frame and his cheeks were flustered, but it was probably more the climb up the stairs than the situation, although Sam was certain both contributed. Sam himself could have sworn he'd fallen pale, and his eyes were wide and his pupils had expanded and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Merry Christmas, Sammy," Dean finally ended the silence.

"The hell are you doing here?" Sam asked him, disregarding the greeting completely.

Dean shrugged; he blinked one too many times.  
"Was in town. I didn't think you'd be in, since you're living the wild student life after all, so I thought I'd just leave you a card, but I stopped to catch my breath before going back down and – here I am."

Sam couldn't hold back from asking.  
"Did you run?" he inquired, watching the crooked grin on Dean's face.  
It was answer enough for him, and he smiled, too.

"Well, are you going somewhere, or are you going to invite me in?" Dean asked him, and despite the cover of cheerfulness in his voice, Sam knew he was holding his breath over the answer.

He didn't have the words for it, so he simply nodded instead, stepped aside from the door and let Dean walk in. The door closed behind them and Dean kicked off his shoes, eyes anywhere but on Sam as he took in the sight of his small apartment.  
"No roommates?" he asked.

"No. I prefer it this way."

"Yeah, well, it ain't like you aren't used to crappy, cramped rooms. But you've fit everything in just fine. Jesus, Sam, do you even own anything that you're not wearing right now? Seriously? This place looks like someone picked the meat off its bones."

"Thanks," Sam grimaced, turned around and walked to the fridge, discarding the card on top of the table as he passed by.  
He held his fingers over the door for a moment before tugging it open. There would hardly come a better time for the leftover beer, and he took two out, handing one out to Dean.

The older brother caught it from his hand with a thankful nod, opened it effortlessly and raised it to his lips without hesitation - he downed an encouraging gulp, where Sam merely sipped his.

"So you said you were... in town," Sam started again after a brief silence had already turned awkward between them, "but Dad's not, or did he just not want to come?"

Dean shook his head.  
"I left Dad a few states back. I'm just here to grab a book from one of his pals, that's all."

" _Here_ here?" Sam pressed, one brow lifting slightly.

Dean chuckled.  
"Well, not _here_ here. It's not in Stanford. But close enough. What, you gonna crucify me over wanting to see you at least once a damn year, Sammy?"

Sam thought for a moment, then shook his head.  
"Thanks," he said instead.

"So, you goin' somewhere tonight?"

Sam shook his head again and leaned to the yellowed kitchen counter behind him. He looked at the window again, if only to avoid looking at Dean, and fell quiet for a moment.  
"I'm not going anywhere," he said then, daring to look back at his brother: he examined the man's face, his stubbled jawline, the scar on his chin and the million faded freckles scattered over the bridge of his nose, over his eyelids, his forehead and his cheeks.  
He'd missed that sight more than he ever dared to admit to himself, much less anyone else. He barely mentioned to others that he had a brother in the first place.

A small smile pushed upon his lips and he let it stay.  
"I'm glad you came," he said, holding back the 'I missed you' that still echoed as an undertone to his words.

Dean nodded. His eyes turned towards the queen size bed and lingered upon it for a moment. Sam knew what he was trying to ask - if he could stay, instead of getting a motel for the night. Of course he could stay, but the implications... Uninvited, his cock gave a slight twitch to the thought. Sam ignored it; he didn't know what they were now, if it was anything like what they'd been before; if they'd broken up when he'd left, or if they'd ever been anything to break up to begin with. He forced the smile on his face to grow, sought out Dean's eyes and nodded.  
"You can stay if that's what you're thinking. I don't have much to eat, but there's coffee if you want some before you go."

"Thanks, Sammy."

What kind of a brother throws another out on the Christmas eve anyway? Sam held back from asking that - he didn't know what kind of a brother he was. He'd left, after all, and he'd ran off here. Now Dean was standing in his kitchen space holding a beer and neither of them seemed to know what exactly they were now. Brothers, estranged brothers, lovers, ex-lovers, what the hell was it? Another burst of laughter ended Sam's trail of thought; it was fitting in its irony.

Dean laid down the beer and cleared his throat.  
"How's the hot water in here?" he asked.

Sam chuckled.  
"Good, but the water pressure's... not," he said, "I can get you a fresh towel if you want to try it out."

"Thanks. I'd love that. Long day."

"Yeah."

The younger spun around on his heels and headed for the small wardrobe: he pulled out a black towel and threw it to Dean, who turned the folded fabric around in his hands for a moment.  
"So you _do_ own something," he chuckled finally, throwing the towel over his shoulder, "That's a good sign, but I still think you should decorate."

Sam grimaced.  
"Yeah, just let me grab all the tinhat-crazy theories I've scribbled down in my notebooks and pin them on the walls - just like Dad taught us."

Dean cocked a brow at him, unimpressed - perhaps a little insulted, too.  
"Don't you have interests of your own?" he asked, "Like a personality? Hell, buy a puppy poster."  
Before Sam could answer, he'd already crossed the room to the battered white door opposite the stove.  
"This your bathroom?"

"Not too many alternatives," Sam pointed out, "That'd be the one."

Dean nodded and disappeared through it. When he was gone and the room was empty and quiet again, with the exception of Dean's voice humming some AC/DC song slightly off-tune in the bathroom, Sam felt his muscles relax and his breath run freely again. He pulled out a chair from underneath the table and settled on it, feeling heavy with the same exhaustion that had followed him in when he'd first entered the room - he'd barely caught sleep the night before, or the night before then, and now it was catching up with him slowly but certainly. Even the unexpected visitation hadn't managed to drive it off completely, even though adrenaline was still rushing in his veins over the surprise. It was funny how torn he felt: on one hand, he knew exactly how to be with Dean, even after two years of silence. On the other hand, there were so many unspoken things he wasn't sure about anymore, things that had likely changed between them but that had toned their relationship for such a long time he wasn't sure how to behave when they weren't there anymore. Should he address those things, or leave them in the past? He didn't know, and he was afraid that Dean didn't, either. The one thing that didn't even cross his mind was whether he wanted them to be there - it didn't seem like something he needed to think, only how he'd survive without addressing them in the first place. That was why he felt so shocked when Dean walked out of the bathroom with nothing but his jeans on, beltless and loosely hanging over his hips just slightly exposing the trimmed hairline underneath. The man was still patting his hair with the towel as he pulled out a seat, settled in it with his long legs spread, and a fresh, red scar decorated his side underneath a lifted arm. Sam held onto that sight, brain buzzing with white noise for the rest of it as it suddenly faced with the likelihood that he would have to address the elephant in the room after all, and he nodded towards it and cleared his throat to chase off the tension from his voice.

"That from a hunt?" he asked.

Dean lowered his arm, ran his palm over his pec and down his ribs until he found the scar. He felt it out with a thoughtful expression on his face before turning towards Sam and smiling.  
"A black dog," he explained, "Dad got it with a clean shot when it attacked, but... that left a nasty gash."

He stretched the skin and tried to peek at the injury himself.

"It's healing alright," he said then, let go and shrugged.  
The black towel fell apart on his head and he caught it over his lap.

"So, Sammy."

Sam sighed.  
"Yeah?"

"Wow, don't sound too excited," Dean grimaced, planted an elbow on the table and knocked absently at it with his knuckles, "I just have to ask - when are you coming home?"

The silence was thick after the question. Sam just stared blankly at him, waiting, as if it was someone else's turn to answer. After a while, defeat spread over Dean's features and he nodded.  
"Right," he said, disappointed, "You're still hellbent on it, aren't you."

"I've got a life here, Dean."

"Yeah, looks like it."

"Would a puppy poster make you feel like I'm telling you the truth? Dean, is there _anything_ I can say to convince you?"

To Sam's surprise, Dean smiled. He stood up again, hung the towel over the chair's back and went for his beer, downing most of it in one go.  
"So," he said then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "you happy here, lawboy?"

Sam wanted to shrug but forced himself to nod instead.  
"Yeah. This is what I want."

"You got your eyes on any cute girls?" Dean asked, and Sam could have hugged him for steering the conversation elsewhere.

A shy smile spread over Sam's lips, one he hadn't planned for. Now he shrugged, and the motion relieved the leftover tension in his muscles.  
"There's a girl I met recently," he admitted, "but I don't know - it might be nothing."

"Go for it."

"That's what Brady keeps telling me."

"Well, I don't know who Brady is, but clearly you should listen to him," Dean huffed.  
He laid down his beer again and walked to Sam now: standing, he was half a man taller than his little brother. He brought his palm over Sam's cheek and gave him the answer he'd been looking for. Nothing was buried. The years meant nothing, not if Sam didn't tell him so now - and he didn't. Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, taking in the warmth, the softness of it despite the roughness of Dean's hands, all too used to holding a gun or a knife and digging and filling up graves.  
"But there's no one right now?" the older brother asked, his voice questioning, low and deep but uncertain nonetheless.

Sam shook his head, never scaring away the palm resting against his face.  
"No."

Dean let out a thoughtful sound. His fingers ran up to Sam's hair, then through it; he pulled him closer until Sam's forehead pressed against his skin, and instinctively Sam pressed a kiss over it, directly above Dean's navel, somewhere in the crook between his abs and the pit underneath his ribs.

"Got a night to spare for me, then, Sammy?"

"Yeah."

A relieved laughter escaped Dean, but Sam still didn't open his eyes. Didn't want to or need to: he was busy breathing in his brother's scent, reveling in the warmth radiating from his slowly drying skin.  
"I could have sworn you'd say no to that."

Sam shook his head.  
"No. I don't - I wouldn't."

"I see."

He had Dean's hand stuck in his hair, fingers slowly moving through, petting him over and over again, and somehow, it felt good now. Not condescending, not like he was a little child, but loving, forgiving. Fitting for the spirit of Christmas, Sam realised, yet the tone of the thought couldn't have been more sarcastic.

With a little rush of rebellion, he stood up, the tip of his nose running over Dean's skin until it finally parted around his sternum. In full height, he was taller than the other man, and when he took a hold of Dean's head, there was nothing gentle about it. He pressed a kiss over his lips, a kiss that was full of teeth and tongue, and backed him against the fridge behind them. Dean's body collided with it and Sam could taste the grimace on him as the cold plastic pressed into his shower-warm back: a magnet fell off and knocked hard against the floor. The grimace soon turned to a smile, and Dean was kissing back with just as much excitement as Sam would have expected: this had always been his escape, a place where he could let go and be himself. Sam loved it, loved feeling that, even though the real Dean had surprised him at first. This wasn't the same Dean as his brother, not the same Dean as John's son was, not even the Dean with girls - this was someone much more genuine, much more vulnerable, and even though nothing that Dean said or did would have given it out, there was a certain sense of submissiveness about him that Sam sucked in and accepted wholeheartedly, had always done. Dean had been the one to teach him... this, but from the very first time they'd slept together, some mask had always shed from him at Sam's touch. Sam would never mention it out of the fear of losing that - it felt special, like it only belonged to the two of them, to _him_ , this chance to see his brother without a role.

He barely dared to touch Dean, instead holding his hands against the cold fridge behind them. Dean, instead, was all hands and touching. His fingers were running underneath Sam's shirt, pulling it up and tugging his jeans down, mapping him out like he was scared he'd otherwise forget the ways around him. Sam doubted that. There wasn't a part of him that Dean didn't know through and through, and even now his every touch felt like he knew exactly how and where to bring his hands, and when to do it. Goosebumps grew over Sam's skin and then washed away only to rise up soon again every time Dean moved to touch him somewhere new, and he lingered in that sensation for a while before nipping roughly at Dean's neck and pulling him off the fridge. He walked the man backwards into the bed and they both fell on it: the mattress let out a whiny creak as their bodies landed over it, and the blanket fluffed up around Dean's body only to nestle him in a light embrace afterwards. Sam's shirt was off; it landed on the floor by the sound of it, and in another apartment, someone broke a glass. The cursing that followed, words inaudible but voice unmistakably frustrated, tempted a laughter out of Dean that Sam felt his horizon sway to the sound of it. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed this before now, hadn't given himself the permission to long for it, but now he felt like he was drowning in them together, and he couldn't think of anything he would have wanted more.

Dean was impatient. His fingers did away with Sam's belt, dug out the button from its hole, and dragged down the zipper until the front of Sam's jeans was open. And Sam didn't hold off, either: he was mouthing at Dean's sensitive neck, sucking at his ear and dragging his tongue over the man's collarbones as Dean's hand slipped in through the fly, palm cupping Sam's hard cock through his underwear and pressing against it.

"God, I've missed you so much, little brother."

No other time for them to say things like that. Sam nodded, a sound of agreement falling off his tingling lips, as he pushed against the touch and sunk his teeth into Dean's shoulder. He rocked against Dean's welcoming touch for a while, panting, lips wet with saliva, until a shudder ran through him bringing along with it such impatient, overwhelming pleasure that he had to pull away. He kept pulling away for a good while until he was on his knees on both sides of Dean's legs, face above the zipper he was undoing. Dean let out a sound, a word that Sam couldn't make sense off, and his hand was up in Sam's hair again - his cock was thick, already wet at the tip when Sam dug it out through his open jeans, and it tasted salty as Sam's lips wrapped around it, as his mouth moved down along its shaft, and as he swallowed around it. A breathless moan escaped Dean's mouth: he'd never been particularly quiet during sex. Sam's face burned at the realisation, at wondering how clearly his neighbours would hear this all, but at least they didn't know they were _brothers_ \- he could survive them hearing him with a man, not so much the whole truth of it.

His head bobbed up and down, lips tight and then loose and then tight again around Dean's cock, his tongue running soft around the length as he pulled up and then reaching out for more as he sunk back in again. Little by little he changed the position they were in, digging one knee between Dean's legs first and then the other as the jeans gave way, and then slowly spreading them out with his palms. He made space for himself until Dean was all spread out in front of him, and once he was there, he pulled back from his cock for long enough to spread a thick layer of saliva over his fingertip: there was plenty of it left over from sucking Dean off, and once there was enough, he went right back to what he'd been doing before. Dean whimpered: his legs trembled, twitched, as Sam pressed his finger against his ass, waited until he relaxed again and then pressed in. Nothing more than the very tip would fit, but it was enough for now; he played about the ring of muscle for a while, his sucking off-rhythm as he concentrated more on the penetration than on pleasure for now, but Dean didn't seem to mind. He gasped for air, shivered and reached a hand back in Sam's hair, and when Sam retreated again, fingertip still pressing into his body, that same hand fell down between Dean's legs and took a hold of his wet, leaking cock.

Sam reached for his drawer, face flustered and the skin around his mouth wet with his own saliva; he knew that if he continued like this, Dean wouldn't last long. It was clear from how he was taking the foreplay, close to coming already even though they had barely started. In worst case scenario, he'd have to take two orgasms - he'd done it before, but he'd been a perfect mess afterwards, and Sam wasn't sure if he wanted to go there tonight. Maybe it would be relieving in some strange way. Maybe it would bring them closer again. Or maybe, just maybe, it would invasive and hurtful; he didn't know how to ask. Instead, he brought his hand over Dean's stomach and petted him there in short but slow strokes, watching him play with his cock even as his own hand was still digging through the drawer, not quite reaching far enough to find the bottom of it before he gave up and leaned to look. He had lube there, old but still perfectly functional, mostly for playing with himself but occasionally for other purposes too: with its aid he'd once relieved himself of a toy ring that'd stuck very tightly around his ring finger after a particularly wild night out with his friends, one of the first he'd ever spent together with them as a group, as just Sam, once he'd realised he could finally let himself have friends in the first place. The memory made the corners of his mouth twitch as he turned back to Dean.

The other's expression was quite serious to match up with his lighter one: he gave Sam instant eye contact, but there was a depth behind his eyes that mirrored his thoughts as Sam watched him. He looked down once to see Sam spread the lube over two of his fingers, but he soon returned to watch him again - a smile spread over his lips, but it was a similarly deep one, a smile that was almost pained in tone, and Sam wanted to reach out and touch his face and tell him it was alright, but it wasn't, not really. Tomorrow, they'd go back to what they'd been for the past years, ever since Sam had left in the first place. Or maybe, just maybe, he could stay for a longer while - delay the book delivery, stay for the winter holidays. Maybe he'd sit there and watch Sam go through his notes, prepare for the new year, or maybe he'd sleep for once, take long hours in and just lie there on the bed for a day or two, watching videos on the laptop, doing whatever, being himself until guilt drove him back on the road again. They'd sleep together each night, just like always when John wasn't there to keep them apart.

Sam looked down again, unable to face Dean and his dreams for a longer while. He let the lube warm up in his fingers before brushing them over Dean's hole. At touch, Dean's cock gave a twitch again, and the other's palm ran over it a few times in a faster pace as Sam finally let his finger sink in deeper. Dean's flesh surrounded him hot, tight and soft - he moved his finger in and out a couple times before turning to circles, to gently stretching the opening up.

"You had anyone after me, Sammy?" Dean asked him, propping himself up on one of Sam's two pillows.  
His pink lips stayed parted after the words, and Sam caught sight of them just in time to watch his tongue run over the lower one. He shook his head.

"No one."

"Too busy studying?"

"I guess. And I just haven't been interested."

The second finger went in easily. Dean was good at this - he relaxed fast, something Sam had never learned to do, not even by himself. Their eyes met, and Sam smiled crookedly.

"You?" he asked, knowing the answer perfectly well.

"A few. None of them are quite what I need, though."

He nodded, wondering if it should sting - it didn't, it had never hurt him to know Dean slept with others. He'd never considered them a couple, never thought they should be exclusive, and he knew Dean had never treated it like that either. For what they were, there weren't words: no one had invented them before, made the road easier for them to walk.  
"I guess we're using a condom, then."

"You know I take good care of myself, Sammy."

"It's nothing personal."

Their eyes met again and Dean chuckled.  
"I guess you do, too. But didn't that ship kind of sail already when you blew me?"

Sam couldn't help the smile.  
"Should have thought of that before. It'll make this easier, though."

"Whatever. I don't mind, either way."

"I know."

"Was one hell of a blowjob, though."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Feels like you've practiced."

"Are you jealous?"

"Are you lying to me?"

"No. But maybe I _have_ practiced, just not on anything that could appreciate the effort."

"Kinky."  
Dean seemed to dwell on the thought for a moment, and Sam couldn't help chuckling to it. He pulled his fingers out and leaned back towards the drawer for the condom he should have thought about earlier.  
"Speaking of, you got toys, Sam?"

"No."

"Right. You don't own things. I forgot. You're anti-materialism or whatever, like a good socially aware college kid should be."

The light from the other half of the room shone too brightly. Sam turned for it, feeling exposed in his open jeans with his now-protected cock hanging out, and after a moment of battling with himself he pulled up from the bed, kicked off his jeans and walked to the light switch. What was left behind was the soft glow from the window next to the bed: when he came back, he stayed to take in the sight of Dean as well. The other's jeans were still inconveniently stuck to one leg, and as Sam watched, Dean lazily kicked them off entirely. They fell into a pile in front of the bed, right on top of Sam's own. Afterwards, the view was definitely erotic. Sam had never been blind to how beautiful his brother was, and watching him like this always made his stomach jump and his heart beat a little bit faster. Dean seemed to know it, but at first he'd still been shy about it, tried to hide or hurry Sam up. Now he just let Sam watch, take the whole sight in. He kept his hands over his stomach, cock resting hard against his hip and toes curling every now and then as the only sign of minor discomfort or anxiety at being exposed like this. Finally Sam got enough of it, or at least decided he should have - he dove back into the bed and started kissing Dean again, from his jaw to his neck and from his neck down to his chest. He sucked at his nipples for a while, hand reaching down to play with his cock, and Dean arched into his touch, against his body for warmth and closeness, and it was perfect that way. There was nothing else Sam could have asked for, and he stayed in that moment for a good long while, knowing that the longer he spent with Dean this way, the more the older would enjoy what came after; they'd been there before. Long foreplay was what turned Dean on, what made giving himself over so enjoyable for him, and even though Sam wasn't sure what exactly made it so enjoyable for him, he appreciated how happy it made his brother - how relaxed and smiley he was in the afterglow whenever they had the time to be throughout. In the midst of it, Sam lubed up his cock, made sure the lube was all warm and that there was a lot of it at the tip, and when Dean's head was bent back and his eyes were closed and his mouth was letting out all sorts of delicious, long-winded sounds, he pressed against his brother's body and joined them together.

Dean pushed back against him, hips eager to take in as much of Sam as he could get all at once, and he groaned in pleasure and Sam's lips went for his throat again, kissing him as he exposed it in full, Adam's apple moving between Sam's touches. His body was pliant, accepting, and making love to him was easy - Sam's thrusts were long, slow at first but gaining in pace as he moved against Dean over and over again. He pulled Dean over his lap, palms staying on his hip bones as his knees held him up, and Dean reached down to give himself pleasure in tune to Sam's movements, his fist sinking down his length every time Sam moved in and then back up as Sam pulled out, milking out a drop of pre-come that melted over his skin on the next movement. His other hand gripped the blanket underneath them, nails clawing at it so that the fabric let out desperate sounds right along with those that Dean was making for them, and Sam could barely breathe watching him, seeing him bend and feeling his muscles throb around his cock, his whole body lit with pleasure and comfort as he lay there, shoulders resting on the bed and hips on Sam's lap.

Their eyes met every now and then, whatever time they could spend with them open in the first place, and every time Sam caught Dean's eyes his heart skipped a beat and a rush of pleasure washed over him. It felt so good to rock into Dean's body, and it had been so damn _long_ since he'd last gotten the chance. The glow from outside painted them both with a soft veil of blue, but every now and then a car passed in the right angle, lighting up a little more of them both. Dean's lips were still parted and after a while Sam couldn't resist them anymore: he bent down and caught them with his own and his hips rushed against Dean's, the wet sounds of their bodies joining mixing up with the muffled sounds that Dean let into the kiss. He was shaking, both hands now running over Sam's back and his neck right into his hair, and Sam took over where he'd left off; his hand wrapped around Dean's cock, held it firmly within his grip and then started moving over it in pace with his thrusts again. He was growing close, but Dean was so much closer; he could feel his muscles flutter, and his skin was wet with sweat and his breaths heavy and full of moans and whimpers and Sam's name, over and over again. His legs held tight on both sides of Sam's body, and Sam barely felt the pain over his ankles where Dean's weight combined with his own and pressed him against the bed; he bent his head beside Dean's, breathing the scent from the crook of his neck as he ran his hips into him, shaking, feeling the build-up within Dean as twitches in his muscles and the ever-tightening grip he had around Sam's cock inside him.

His orgasm came with a quiet gasp: his body tensed, pushed near violently into Sam so that Sam's cock sunk into him full-length, and every inch of him inside Dean got to feel the way he clamped onto him, held, and how his pleasure rushed through him like a tidal wave. Sam gasped at the feel of hot come against his fingers, leaking over and onto Dean's belly instead, and he bucked into him even though there was no space between them - it was that one last movement that got him over the edge as well, and he could have been blinded with pleasure as he came himself, feeling the condom between them fill up with his own come. He panted, throat sore for a reason he couldn't trace back to, and he was now resting his head over Dean's chest instead, back arched and the back of his neck exposed for Dean's hand that pet it gently over and over again.

"That was..." Dean breathed out, but a shiver seemed to cut him off and he swallowed instead of finishing the sentence.

Sam let out a shaky laughter, attempting to pull back but Dean's trembling legs caught a firm hold of him, keeping him right where he was. 'Don't go', the gesture said, but neither of them got more words out. Instead, they caught their breaths for a very long while just resting there, Sam in the uncomfortable bent pose he'd adopted and with his ankles and knees screaming for mercy, and Dean spread out in front of him, completely relaxed, dripping with sweat just like Sam was.

"... that was amazing," Dean finally finished, and Sam couldn't help but nod.

Finally he was released: he backed out, took the condom off and planned to discard it in the trash, but found out quite soon that _walking_ was a task his body wasn't prepared for. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed for a moment just catching his breath before he finally trusted himself enough to move, and the pain had finally left his joints. His legs trembled like mad as he crossed the apartment once more, threw the condom in the trash and then returned to the bed, falling more than settling back on it. Dean watched him, eyes half-lidded but clear; he reached out a hand for Sam and brushed off the hair from his forehead that had stuck to the sweat gathered over it.

"I'm gonna need another shower," he said then, laughing breathlessly.

"Yeah. I - yeah."

"You too."

"Yeah."

Dean shook his head and turned for the ceiling.  
"I guess that's a plan for the morning," he said then, closing his eyes.

Sam felt his hand over his own but there was no hold, merely an implication of it; he accepted it and hoped it'd stay, that maybe he'd wake up in the morning to it still lingering there.

"Will you stay?" he finally asked, no longer able to hold off the question.  
"Just a few days - over the holidays, at least."

Dean made a sound, perhaps out of surprise or something else, Sam couldn't tell. He thought for a moment, maybe about John, but there wasn't going to be a Christmas for him and Dad. There hadn't been one since they'd stopped being kids, or at least kids enough to need one.

"Yeah," he finally said, "Yeah, I guess I can stay for a few days. I'll tell Dad I'm out of money and need to stay in town for a bit. He won't know any better."

"Lying on Christmas. You really haven't changed, Dean."

Dean chuckled, the sound of his voice already sleepy, drifting.  
"You just had sex with your own brother, Sam. I don't think - I don't think my lying is the worst offense here, seriously."

"Fair enough."


End file.
